My visa interview was for
10.00am. I had picked that time slot to avoid the rush hour, which I
did, but took a wrong turn and went into KLCC instead. But my
GPS guided me back. So it was 9.45 by the time I got to the
guardhouse to the 'forbidden city', which is what most people I have
asked consider the US Embassy on Jalan Tun Razak to be.Before I could join a visible short queue, the guard on duty, Clement, asked, "What time is your interview, sir?"
"Ten."
"You can go to the counter with your documents, then," he smiled.
"Don't I have to queue?"
"For you special, sir," he grinned. I learned that the queue I saw from a distance was for entering the premises, which was after showing the guard my appointment letter.
It was a short wait before I was allowed in for security clearance: remove shoes, belt, wallet, empty pockets, etc, etc. But, again, the guards were all scrupulously polite. Then, I put them all back on and stepped into the empty courtyard of the Temple of Doom where there were chairs for me to sit on to tie my shoe laces.
I'm almost there! One more large door, and I saw another burly guard on the left, outside another door.
"Ambil nombor disini ke?" I asked redundantly to break the silence, seeing the queuematic machine.
"Ya, ya. Tekan butang merah," the guard smiled, before pointing me to the opposite side. "Ada tempat duduk disana. Sini sudah penuh." I opened the door to see a room full of people. I had seen more smiley faces at wakes and funerals!
What is it about the US Embassy that terrorises people so?! It was as if the people in the room, mostly Malaysians with a smattering of foreigners, were all uniformly afraid to even breathe in case they made too much noise and their visas were denied for that reason, or make eye contact with anyone. A man who was chatty while we were queuing outside the main gate, suddenly seemed to have turned to ice inside that room. It was the same look on all the faces, one of dread. Like in 1984, the Apple commercial. "Oh no, they're going to reject my application. They're going to reject my application." Come on people, you're going to America. Smile! Look happy!
I thought the application process was quite painless, with good instructions and a relatively easy to use website. Everyone seemed to be going out of the way to be polite and helpful, starting with Clement at the main gate. Well, almost everyone. When my number was called promptly at ten to present my documents at the main hall, the woman at the counter looked like she had had too many sour lemons for breakfast. But she was not rude, only unfriendly. Oh, people have their 'off' days, I thought to myself as I walked back to my first waiting lounge.
Not much of a lounge, actually. A large American flag behind a glass, a soundless television playing a western that nobody was watching, dull posters on the wall and a stack of magazines -- Newsweek, The Economist, The Circular, The Statesman, etc -- that were probably too old for a dentist's waiting room. I used the men's room, came back and found an empty seat. Why don't I write a story about this, I thought, and started to scribble. Then I looked up, suddenly. Do they have CCTV cameras in here? What if they ask me what I'm writing? Mild panic. Oh, what the hell.
My number was called again at a quarter to eleven for finger printing. The gentleman attending to me was sufficiently polite and professional, even if he didn't quite have the customary Malaysian friendliness we are used too. I found a seat and decide to wait in this second lounge with the, almost apologetic, framed photos of Obama, Biden and Kerry in a corner near the door, for my actual interview. Here again was the same nervousness. Everyone looked around very careful, turning slowly, making no sudden movements, not smiling, speaking in whispers -- I wanted to laugh. Oh no, what if they reject my visa?! I heard someone shush an over exuberant child behind me. "If we don't get our visa today, it will be your fault," I imagine the man scolding the boy.
My interview was at 11.15. Again it was painless, with even a small joke at the end. My visa was approved in less than two minutes, with a promise of delivery within two days to the address specified. I was smiling when I left. I saw Clement outside in the hall and we exchanged smiles. "You're here now," I said, again redundantly. "Yes, sir, no more queue outside."
Ordinarily, people like Clement would make all the difference to your experience at an new place. I have been to many embassies and high commissions, where some of the staff have been outright rude, but nowhere have I felt intimidated. The smiley security guard or the receptionist usually makes everything all right, anyway. Meet Americans outside on the streets, and they are perfectly friendly, sometimes annoyingly so, as if they feel they need to make up some perceived 'bad behaviour' by their government. (Hey, we have heck of a lot more to apologise for our in own government, okay! We are a boob-a-day country.)
So why is the US Embassy so forbidding? I thought my visa application was sufficiently well handled. The people I met in person were professionally pleasant, a far cry from ten years ago. So why this anxiety? Is it us, or is it them? Do they know this is how the rest of us feel?
